One Life at a Time
by GoldSeven
Summary: Peter Petrelli finds himself alone, injured, and hunted, and survival suddenly takes priority over saving others. Peter's POV. Rated T for language. Breaches the gap between Peter's flight in "Exposed" and his reappearance in "Cold Snap".
1. Alone

**Characters**: Mostly Peter, with some others making appearances later on.

**Setup**: Set right after "Exposed" (and my own fic "Touch and Go") and following Peter through "Shades of Gray" and most of "Cold Snap", simply wondering how he might have fared at the time. It's turned slightly AU now with the events of "Cold Snap" and the revelation who Rebel is (and it probably was just one or two days, not four), but all in all, it still works well as an in-between. How he got from Washington to New York, how he recovered from his injury, how he knew where to find his mother, right down to how he picked up that grey coat - it's all here. Enjoy. :D

Reviews and comments welcome!

.

.

.

.

**One life at a time**

The room was cool, smelly, and in semi-darkness. And it was cluttered. There were pieces of furniture in various states of disrepair, cabinets full of detergents, brooms and mops, cardboard boxes piled as high as the ceiling with waterstains at the bottom, and bundled stacks of the _Washington Post_, a cursory sample of which proclaimed them to be from the mid-eighties.

A bit of light shone through two tiny windows half obscured by all manner of junk, telling Peter it was day when he woke. What time of day, he couldn't tell; it was too dark in his corner of the room to see his watch.

He guessed he could have done worse for a temporary hideout. There had been a pile of mattresses in one corner, all smelling faintly of cat piss, but after some searching, he'd found a flowery shower curtain to cover them with, and put Nathan's coat on top of that. A water tap in the back wall was functional as well. There were two exits – the one through which he'd come, a ramshackle wooden door opening to the roof, and a door that obviously opened into the building on the other side, locked from without. Peter had lodged a piece of wire in the keyhole to keep away anyone entering the storeroom by accident – and to have at least a minute's warning if anyone tried to enter it _not_ by accident.

So far, he had been lucky, at least as far as he could tell. He had a feeling he must have slept for a long time – the painkillers hadn't done much for the pain but had left him rather drowsy – and nobody had tried to enter the storage room. He'd hoped for something of the sort after assessing the state the place was in. The caretaker here was probably a lot like the one in the house in which Peter lived. When the heating failed or all the light bulbs in the hall decided to burn through simultaneously again, it usually took ages before you were able to get hold of the guy.

He sat up slowly, but still the movement sent a stab of pain through his left shoulder. He gave a silent curse. This wasn't the best environment to wait for a wound to heal, but he saw no other way. His first instinct, right after dropping off his memory stick at the network news building, had been to think of ways how he could locate and free Matt or Daphne, or any of the others, but he had to concede he was easy prey right now, and would be captured or killed long before he even came close to achieving anything. He was feeling woozy even after the drugs must have worn off, and he faced the fact that he'd probably caught an infection, which would be hard to treat without access to antibiotics.

_One life at a time_, he thought bitterly. _And right now, that's gotta be mine_. He took some small comfort in the fact that, at least, Matt wouldn't be able to strap a bomb to his chest and blow up the White House while he was in custody.

He had considered, briefly, to try making it to California and borrow Claire's ability. The prospect of seeing a friendly face and be rid of his gunshot wound within seconds had been extremely tempting, but he had been forced to discard the idea in the light of the huge downsides. He wasn't even certain he could fly that far in his present state, and other ways of travel were too risky. Even if it hadn't been for that, he didn't want to draw Claire into this mess again. He had no doubts that she would be more than willing to be pulled into any mess as long as she thought she could help, but the Bennet house would be watched, and God knew what Danko's goons would do if he learned that Claire, or Noah, had helped him. Peter harboured no illusions anymore that Danko, not Nathan, was running the operation these days. The conversation with his brother had made that amply clear to him. Nathan had bitten off more than he could chew, and the surplus had come to bite him in the ass.

Peter realised that a lot of his anger at Nathan had cooled. It was still there, but the hot fury at his brother's betrayal had been replaced by head-shaking incredulity as he recalled how deeply serious, and utterly clueless, Nathan had been just after rescuing him from falling off that roof. Quite obviously, he was still convinced he was doing the right thing, and was genuinely appalled at how everyone was just rejecting his well-meant offers for help. He might have promised to keep Peter safe if he turned himself in, and he had definitely meant it, and it startled Peter just how little Nathan realised that there was no way he could guarantee something like that. Things had passed Nathan completely by, and he still conveyed the impression that he hadn't even realised.

His stomach growled, and he was reminded that he probably hadn't eaten in twenty-four hours. With a groan, he crept to the edge of his makeshift bed to get a better look at his watch, and saw that it was already past 9 PM. Not so much daylight left, then. He would have to wait until it was fully dark before he could leave his hideout – he was _not_ going to fly down from here in broad daylight – to get some food, and some more dressing material. Ruefully, he thought of Matt's ability, which would have come in extremely handy here. Or Claude's, which would have been about as useful. Now, he'd have to rely on the couple of bucks he still had in his pockets, and hope he would think of something to better his situation soon.

An hour later, Peter was on his way in search of a 7-Eleven, jacket pulled over his left arm to partially obscure the sling. Nathan's coat would have been useful here, but he'd decided to leave it in the loft – the rather unfavourable combination of Nathan's aftershave and cats' piss was guaranteed to make anyone suspicious if they came too close.

He was lucky again. Nobody looked at him longer than necessary as he paid for a couple of plastic-wrapped sandwiches, compresses, medical tape and some more disinfectant. He was already out of the store when he remembered his flash drive. If he had assessed the situation correctly, the story of US citizens being rounded up and herded onto a plane by the government had to be all over the newspapers. For a moment, he was about to head back into the store, but then forewent the idea as being too likely to rouse suspicion. He'd have to find a vending machine. That shouldn't be too hard. He had probably passed a few on his way here but overlooked them.

Two blocks from the convenience store, he saw a dark-red dispenser of the _Washington Examiner_ standing on the corner of the street, fumbled for some coins in his pocket until he saw it was free, and nearly dropped them anyway as he saw the headline: _Capitol Hill narrowly escapes bomb explosion_.

Peter was at the dispenser in what felt like less than a second, pulled open the lid, only to find there weren't any copies left. Shakily, he crouched down to look at the remaining issue behind acrylic glass, and found himself staring at a photo of Matt Parkman, looking eerily like all those paintings now littering Isaac's loft in Manhattan, with the White House visible in the background. He couldn't make out much of Matt's face; there was another figure there, seen from behind, but the glass was blinded in several spots, so he couldn't make out all of it.

_Narrowly escapes_, he reminded himself. _Narrowly escapes_. _Matt's gotta be alright. _He steadied himself against the vending machine to read as much as he could of the article.

_Washington, DC. A man with a bomb strapped to his chest kept the DC Police on tenterhooks for half an hour on Sunday night, until the bomb was defused, apparently with the help of Junior Senator Nathan Petrelli—_

Peter hit the dispenser in fury. It hurt, but damn, it had been worth it.

_The reasons for the attempted assault are still unclear, says spokesperson Sharon Baldric. It seems that the man, a former police officer from Los Angeles and New York City who has been making a living with bodyguard duties for the past months before surprisingly quitting his service four days ago and disappearing from New York, never made any demands or issued any threats, and no other links to known terrorist activity have surfaced. Eyewitnesses report that the man was knocked to the ground after the bomb was defused, and taken into custody._

_Senator Petrelli refused to comment on the situation, even his own involvement with it, causing some speculation about a possible link with material that surfaced earlier that evening, giving hints that the US government has expanded the influence of the Patriot Act…_

Peter broke off. He'd had enough. He realised his knees were shaking as he got to his feet again, furious at himself for not being there when Matt had been on the verge of levelling Capitol Hill, furious at Nathan for being a goddamn hypocrite, and furious at Danko, whose handwriting was all over this. Matt _had_ been in custody. There was no way for him to stage all of this. And even if there had been, he definitely would have made demands or issued threats if any of this had been his idea.

And now Matt was back in Building 26, Danko finally had his proof to the world that specials were dangerous and needed to be put down rather than detained, and Peter's ground-breaking revelation that the government was moving against innocent citizens had been moved to page five, along with recent developments that would leave the country in doubt whether they were so innocent in the first place.

He noticed that several people were watching him with interest, but none of them was making a move towards him yet. Peter turned abruptly and started to walk back to his hideout, but not on the most direct path. He cast furtive glances around every now and then to see if anyone was following him, but after a while, he was sure nobody did.


	2. A narrow escape

**2**

Everything in Peter's hideout was dark when he returned, and he fought with himself for a minute or two before he went in search of the light switch. He decided it was a risk he had to take. The light would be seen from the outside, but eleven stories up, that was unlikely to give him away, and he needed light to take care of his injury.

His fears were confirmed as he carefully peeled off the bandage he'd applied twenty-four hours ago. The flesh around the wound was reddened and swollen, a clear indication of an infection, and as he applied disinfectant and dressed it again, he knew that this, and hoping, was all he could do. He'd foregone painkillers as they would have blown his slim budget, and the last ones his mother had got hadn't really helped that much anyway. In addition, he needed to keep his wits together, and painkillers wouldn't help with that.

He switched off the light again and ate his sandwiches in the dark, then leaning back against the wall and wishing the world would stop spinning.

He must have drifted off to sleep, and nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of a phone bleeping close to his ear.

For a few seconds, he sat bolt upright, staring into the darkness like a child awakened from a nightmare, and was about to put the sound off as precisely that when he remembered, with a horrible, sick feeling in his stomach, that Nathan had put his cell phone into the pocket of his coat before he'd put it around Peter's shoulders.

_And you were to one who told Matt, Hiro and the others that we couldn't trust phones_.

Still, he remembered Nathan switching it off. How the hell was the thing bleeping?

He found the phone in an inside pocket of Nathan's coat, where it had obviously slid into the gap between the mattress and the wall, or otherwise he would have noticed it at some point by lying on it. He brought it out and found the display was live, showing the words:

MESSAGE FROM: UNKNOWN

THAT WAS CARELESS.

Peter swore silently. Whatever his motives, the guy had a sense of humour he definitely didn't share right now.

Before he could type an answer, another message replaced the first:

THEY'VE FOUND YOU. GET OUT OF THERE. THE ROOF IS STILL CLEAR.

Alarmed, Peter jerked around to the door. There was a thin sliver of light coming through from under it, and he heard boots, and low voices, still not directly in front of it, but entirely too close. He wished he still had one or two of those flash grenades he'd liberated from Noah's cache. But they were probably prepared for that by now.

TAKE THE PHONE.

_Great idea_, Peter thought sarcastically. _So they can find me again?_

Rebel must have anticipated his reaction, because Peter saw a new message flashing on the display just as he got up shakily, stuffing some of the supplies he'd bought earlier into the pockets of his jacket.

I CAN CHANGE ITS PROPERTIES. GO!

He gave another curse, pocketed the phone, and hastened to the roof exit.

He hadn't noticed, last night, just how warped the door was and how hard it was jammed. Whether this was because he'd been a lot more at leisure then than he was now, or because he hadn't closed it properly, it didn't move at all when he tried to open it, and didn't even budge when he tried to shoulder it open.

They were at the other door. The original plan must have been to wait until there were men in place on the rooftop as well, to block his escape route, but now, hearing the noise he made as he tried to open the roof access door, they had apparently decided to act.

No more voices; just a heavy bang as the door behind him was forced open. They hadn't bothered with the lock for even a minute. Peter didn't turn to look; he knew what he would find as he caught red searchlights flashing across the room. He knew he had no more than seconds. That ruled out the windows.

Desperate, he threw himself against the little wooden door with all his strength, adrenaline and relief at the sound of splintering wood momentarily drowning out the pain in his shoulder as the door burst open. He stumbled out onto the roof just as he heard a voice shouting, "Freeze!", followed so closely by the sound of gunshots that he knew the demand to surrender had been little more than a matter of protocol.

Peter didn't stay to find out whether surrender was an option, or who'd come to get him; he shot away from the shattered door as fast as he could, seeing more black-clothed figures crawling up over the edges of the roof. Two of them got off shots, or maybe it had been the ones who'd forced their way from the inside of the building, but he was already too far up, and none of their bullets hit their target. Soon, they were out of sight, and out of earshot.

He kept flying for a long while, as high as he dared, but a lot more slowly than he usually did, until the city below gave way to suburbs, and he knew he was leaving the Washington Metropolitan area. Peter's first instinct had been to leave the entire area altogether, but then he thought that this was probably what they would expect any sane person to do. It was like playing Scotland Yard. Play a "Move twice this turn" plus a black ticket, but just go two stations, while the other players trying to catch you swarmed all over the board, thinking you had gone God knows where. He'd been good at that. And he didn't think Nathan remembered.

He slowed even more, knowing he wouldn't be able to go on much further, and it would be a lot harder to hide, and survive, in suburbs than in the anonymity of D. C. Finally, he landed on one of the highest buildings he could spot, sitting down against a superstructure wall and closing his eyes. The air was warmer down here, but he was shaking, and completely at a loss what to do. When he groped for the bandage beneath his collarbone, he found the wound had been bleeding again, not enough to be truly dangerous, but sufficient to weaken him even more. Pain and hopelessness caught up with him, and for the first time since the plane crash, the bleakness of the entire situation made him wonder what the point in running was anymore. He couldn't trust his family, and he had no friends left, unless you counted some stranger sending him cryptic messages. His only ability was flight, which was useful for running, but hardly for _doing_ anything, and he had no chance to absorb any other.

_Stop it_! Peter finally told himself firmly. He was still alive. And he was still at large. That was a lot more than most of the others could say about themselves. He had a responsibility towards them; they had nobody else. Matt Parkman was probably in the greatest danger of all, after Danko had succeeded in making him appear a terrorist. But even for the others, he couldn't simply leave them to their fate. Not even Mohinder. Or even Tracy.

He brought out the phone, his only link to his only ally. But the display was black again, and since the phone was Nathan's, he didn't know the PIN that would activate it. He spent several minutes going through every combination of birth dates or wedding days in the family he could think of, but finally gave it up as a bad job. _Damn you_, he thought bitterly as he pocketed it again, not quite sure who the resentment had been directed at – Rebel, or Nathan.

He remained sitting there for another hour, to gather his strength before he flew back into the city, until he realised that he might just as well set off now, in the middle of the night when he would be least likely to attract any attention. Danko's squad couldn't be watching every rooftop in the city. And maybe, he thought, it might be a smarter move to go for a basement this time, just to cut down on predictability.

Slowly he got to his feet, and set off again towards the Capitol, or at least in the direction he was fairly sure he'd come from. For a while, he was hoping that Nathan's mobile would bleep back to life, maybe informing him of something like _THE OWNERS OF THE PENTHOUSE OF 118, 18__TH__ ST NW ARE ON VACATION_, but no such luck. He gave up on his basement plans soon, too, when he found that Washington, D. C. slept about as little as New York did, and he realised he would have an easier time staying hidden well above the ground.

The sun was already starting to rise when Peter finally found an attic that would serve his purpose, just a block from the _Washington Post_ building. He had barely enough presence of mind left to make sure the skylight opened and closed smoothly, and to register that he had apparently exchanged his cat piss problem for rats, judging by the traps that were set up along one wall, before he curled up on the floor and fell into an uneasy sleep.


	3. Nightmares

**3**

"It's out of control, and it's my fault. I'm trying to fix it. In fact, I'm the only one who can fix it." – "Why's that, because you're one of us?" – "Because I'm the only one who cares if you're alive or not, Pete." They were on a rooftop again, only this time it was the Deveaux rooftop. Or maybe not. It didn't matter. He was furious.

"Oh, yeah, and a brilliant job you've been doing! If you care whether we live or die, why did you have to convince the public we were dangerous terrorists in the first place? You don't care, Nathan, all you care for is your ego!"

Nathan just stood there before him, with an odd expression on his face, said, "Pete, I'm just trying to help," and then he suddenly flashed his broadest election poster smile, gave him a jovial pat on the shoulders, and flew off into the sky. Peter looked down at himself in horror to find he had bomb fuses strapped to his waist. He was in Kirby Plaza. He tried to fly, but couldn't move.

And then suddenly it was Claude standing opposite him, giving him that maniacal grin. "People suck, friend. Each and every one of them." He gave Peter a shove, and he felt his heart miss a beat as he started to plummet.

He was falling. He was flying. And then he wasn't. He landed hard on the ground, the wind knocked out of him as glass rained down on him from a broken window on the seventh floor.

He should have been dead, and yet he wasn't.

His shoulder hurt, and the hard floor didn't help either.

Claire was there, but he wasn't healing. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like. He groped for her hand, willing for her ability to cross over to him, but it didn't, and then she was gone. He was alone.

It was dark, and cold. He had no idea how he'd got here, where he was, or who; all he knew he was cold, and confused, and scared.

The door banged open, and in walked Arthur, a book in his hand and a hole in his forehead. Peter stared at him.

"Son," Arthur said, gesturing with the book while blood poured down his face, "until you change that attitude, you're grounded."

Peter jerked awake.

He was drenched in cold sweat, still shaking despite the fact that the attic was stifling hot.

Unsteadily, he sat up on the floor, every muscle in his body aching, as he willed his heart to stop pounding. He hadn't thought about that shipping container in weeks. His subconscious had a lot to answer for.

He took a few seconds to get his bearings, before he looked around for his first good inspection of the room he was in. Compared to this, his last hideout had been positively tidy, more of a broom cabinet than a junk room, but here, there was so much stuff of every description lying around that he probably could easily have hidden under it all even if Danko's goons would come charging in right then. The prospect was certainly worth consideration, but the place had its downsides – there was no water tap this time, and it was so hot and oppressive up here that Peter felt as if his head would split, and that had the casting vote.

He retrieved the last packed sandwich from his pocket. He must have lain on it at some point, because even through the plastic wrapper, it had been reduced to little more than a crumbling, sticky mess, but he was hungry enough not to care.

When he had finished it, the absence of water became all the more obvious. A glance at his watch told him it was early afternoon – too early to leave his shelter safely by his own definition of "safe", but he'd have to adapt.

He carefully picked his way through all the junk, one-handedly shifting stools, an ancient-looking typewriter, a Christmas tree stand and several large wooden boards out of the way, aiming for a laundry basket near one of the walls, in the hope he would find something to replace his sweaty and bloodied t-shirt. As he slightly moved one of the boards, a precarious construction of several cardboard boxes, a lampshade and, to make matters worse, a splintered guitar came sliding down, and he stood frozen in the debris for several minutes, hardly daring to breathe, until he was sure that nobody was coming to investigate.

The basket yielded mostly faded-out children's clothing, and the only thing that was approximately his size and that he could bring himself to wear, with a stretch, was a pastel yellow polo shirt. It smelled of ten years of attic, but of nothing worse.

He redressed and cleaned his wound again before he changed, and as he replaced the sling, he remembered his words to the others in Arkansas – _we'll have to do things we can't even imagine to survive_. Right down to pastel yellow polo shirts. He sighed. At least the white sling didn't stand out on it as much as it had on his dark blue shirt. He considered leaving the sling off – it would make him easily recognizable in case anyone was actively looking for him – but since his shoulder hadn't improved at all since two nights ago, he knew he had to favour mobility over a lower profile.

The sun was beating down outside when he carefully opened the skylight, and climbed out onto the roof. He had never flown in the middle of a crowded city in broad daylight.

He walked over to the edge of the roof to look down into the alley below. Just when he felt confident that nobody might see him if he swooped down into a deserted-looking backyard, his phone bleeped, and he nearly rolled his eyes at the timing as he opened the display.

He read:

MESSAGE FROM: UNKNOWN

59 BOX ST, NY.

YOU'VE GOT HELP THERE.

14TH FLOOR, 4TH WINDOW FROM THE LEFT.

USE THE FIRE ESCAPE.

REBEL.

"New York?" Peter said aloud. That was in Brooklyn.

He typed, I DON'T THINK I CAN.

As always, the reply came up so fast that it was impossible to believe somebody was typing the words.

YOU'VE GOT TO.

Peter wondered how much this Rebel person could possibly know about him. Tapping into surveillance cams, yes, it wasn't hard to imagine how he had found him and Matt in Isaac's loft, or in building 26. But how could Rebel know where he was now, and what his condition was?

MATT AND THE OTHERS, he typed. I CAN'T LEAVE THEM.

YOU CAN'T HELP THEM. I'M DOING WHAT I CAN. TRUST ME.

Before Peter had time to reply, the display went black again, and he nearly threw the phone down into the alleyway in frustration. "Trust you?" he shouted, causing a few pigeons to flutter up from an aerial in alarm. "You're not exactly giving me much reason to, are you?"

59 Box Street, 14th floor, fire escape – damn, what window had it been again? And he couldn't even bring the message up again for another look.

It was more than three hundred miles to New York. Under normal circumstances, that would not have been a problem for him, but the circumstances were hardly normal.

And then there was the deeply rooted reluctance to blindly trust a message from a person he didn't know, who obviously liked dramatic timing and kept his associates as much in the dark as possible, while he himself was pulling all the strings. Rebel seemed to share a lot of character traits with his mother, he thought resentfully.

A year ago, he would probably have trusted this Rebel guy without thinking, but too much had happened since then to make him lose faith in people who said they had his best interests in mind.

He dreaded the long flight, but deep down, he knew he hardly had any other choice than to take Rebel's suggestion. If the infection continued to get worse at its present rate, he wasn't even sure he would be able to fly at all by tomorrow. He needed help, and rest, in a place that was neither a public cat toilet nor heated up to 110 degrees during the day.

But first, he needed something to drink, or he wouldn't make the flight anyway.

Peter waited for a couple of minutes, making sure nobody was around, and then he flew down from the building into the backyard below.


	4. Collateral damage

**4**

The best place to become as good as invisible without any special abilities was Union Station – a place so full of people that Peter felt reasonably safe. He doubted that even Danko would apply his usual approach of shooting first and asking questions later here. He spent the remainder of the afternoon in the gigantic, bright and lofty building, in the comforting presence of so many _normal_ people, who were shopping, greeting friends, eating and drinking, and living lives that were likely to be the same a year from now, or ten years from now. The strange thing was that they would probably have dreaded the prospect, if they were confronted with it, while he would have given anything to trade just then.

He knew he should have left sooner, but was reluctant to. All he desired was to pretend, just for a few hours, that he was as normal as they were. That he could go back to a life like theirs too, if he chose to.

Even so, several times, he found himself wishing fervently that he still had Matt's ability. It had been so incredibly useful for getting anything in the way of supplies, or transport, they had needed while they'd been on the run. From borrowing a car to getting a motel room or even convincing a police officer that these weren't the droids he was looking for, it had meant unlimited resources.

_Cut those what-ifs_, Peter told himself firmly. _You can fly, period_.

He knew he was standing out from the crowd a lot less than he felt he must be, but he still took the first opportunity to clean himself up somewhat in a restroom, and felt almost human again in the air-conditioned historical building when he emerged. So human, in fact, that when he passed a Starbuck's, the prospect of a coffee to go was irresistibly appealing.

He added another pack of sandwiches to his order, and as he fished for his last coins in the pocket of his jacket and waited for the girl behind the counter to pour the coffee, his eyes fell on a poster taped to the window, which showed a photograph of him.

It was one of those situations of life in which human nature insists on you doing a double-take, even if that ensures that everybody else sees what you don't want them to see.

For something like three seconds, Peter held on to the hope that nobody had noticed the horror in his eyes, at the sight if a photo of himself under the caption "Terrorist" and with his full name beneath it. There were other faces on the poster, he thought he'd seen the Haitian and a guy named Doyle he'd seen in Level Five, but his was at the top. He'd only caught snippets of the text, like "extremely dangerous" and "under no circumstances, try to capture any of these individuals on your own initiative", and suddenly felt very, very sick.

Then heads turned in his direction, and towards the poster, and he saw the till girl staring at him with a look of frozen horror on her face, which he was sure pretty much mirrored his own, and from the corner of his eye, he caught a woman getting out a phone and surreptitiously dialling three numbers.

He grabbed his sandwiches, forewent the coffee as being the more expendable of the two, and ran. He knocked into a man further down the queue, who half-heartedly made an attempt to stop him, but Peter managed to dodge him as he continued running, the faces further away from the counter more confused than alarmed, but for that, probably more likely to try to stop him. They, after all, didn't know that they weren't supposed to capture him on their own initiative, and probably thought he simply hadn't paid.

He knew that he was easily identifiable by anyone as the source of the commotion while he continued to run, but he was also aware that he couldn't help it. As he came closer to the entrance opening into the lobby of the station, he almost regretted not having his gun anymore, having left it behind when he had met Noah at the parking lot. But the next second, he was glad he didn't. Holding Nathan at gunpoint at the Russellville memorial site had been one thing; he was glad that he didn't have to worry about whether or not he would take civilians as hostages if he had no other options.

And even at Russellville, he owed his life to Noah, who hadn't shot him although be probably would have been able to.

While most people just stared at him as he ran past or even hurriedly moved out of the way, two men standing at the entrance suddenly moved purposefully to block his way out. One of them looked big and well-muscled enough to knock him down without half trying. Peter stumbled to a halt a few feet away from them, looking around wildly for another escape route, but even flight was not an option in here.

Not to mention fight, considering the girth of the guys opposite him.

"What you running from, eh?" one of them asked, standing in front of the – open – entrance, the one who looked not quite as much as a prize-fighter as the other, but still someone that Peter didn't feel confident to take on without super strength up his sleeve, even if it hadn't been for his buddy.

"Move out of the way," Peter replied, quietly, with the air of one who had been up against much, much worse, even if he didn't feel particularly invincible just now. "And nobody's getting hurt."

"_You're_ gonna get hurt, pal," said the other, sizing him up disdainfully, and taking a step towards him.

"You wanna be careful," shouted somebody from behind Peter, who had obviously followed the exchange at the Starbucks counter, "he's supposed to be really dangerous—"

There was a moment's hesitation in the big man, and that was enough for Peter. He swooped forwards, with enough momentum to knock the man over much more forcefully than he could have achieved without flying, but not enough to look conclusively _like_ flying to the bystanders. Both he and his opponent tumbled through the open coffee shop entrance into the lobby. Peter rolled, got to his feet a second sooner than the other man, ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder, and was running again without looking back. At some point, he dimly noticed that he must have lost the sandwiches somewhere along the way, and wondered why the hell that mattered.

What he saw ahead was enough to make his gut freeze.

They must have been on patrol in the building; there was no way they could have got here so quickly. But there, running towards him as people hurried out of their way and dragged children to safety, were three of Danko's men in black. They were not wearing masks this time, so Peter could see that Danko was not among them, which was probably why he hadn't been shot already.

"_Freeze_!" the lead man yelled at him, still some twenty yards away and with too many people between them to shoot, as he advanced on Peter, his two companions cutting wider arcs to cut off possible escape routes.

Peter's first impulse was to comply. He remembered that Nathan had promised he could keep him alive.

_No_.

Nathan was wrong. He might not have realised it, but Peter had. If Danko was informed of his capture, Peter knew he'd be dead within the hour. Nathan might be informed of a regretful incident that had left Danko no other choice but to kill the younger Petrelli, but that would be the extent of it.

He cast one more desperate look around himself, and half-turned to make a break for it. They would be mad to shoot at him in a hall full of people.

He hadn't known how mad.

Or how scared of him.

He heard the shot, and the scream, then more screaming, and in spite of himself, he turned to see a young woman collapsing in the arms of a man standing next to her, her eyes wide in shock as the front of her light blue shirt blossomed red.

To Peter, it felt like days before he managed to tear his eyes away from her, although it could not have been more than seconds, seconds during which even his pursuers were holding their fire.

Before they could shoot again, Peter crouched low for a standing jump, and shot up with all the speed he could muster, shielding his head with his arms as he crashed through the high-domed glass roof of Union Station. He flew on blindly in a blur of emotions he couldn't hope to sort out but instead hoped to outrace somehow, until he finally slowed and, without much thinking, landed on the highest rooftop in the vicinity, stumbling as he went down, unable to get up again.

He didn't care how far he'd flown, what part of the Metropolitan Area he was in, whether he was still in Washington, or Arlington, or Alexandria; he wasn't even sure which direction he'd taken. He found there were still shards of glass falling from his hair, and there were a few cuts on his hands and one or two new ones in his face. He was trembling so badly that he could only sit there, and it took several minutes before he was able, by a tremendous effort, to get his head to clear and his hands to stop shaking.

_There's nothing you could have done for her – if you'd stayed, they'd have shot you next – it wasn't your fault_—

And yet, in his mind, the unknown woman's face changed into Simone's whenever his thoughts returned to her, and no matter how he tried to convince himself that none of this had been his fault, the memories wouldn't let go.

The sun was almost down, and he knew it would not be long before orientation would be extremely difficult. Flying would be tough, but it would be something to do. Something that took him somewhere. Away from here.

59 Box Street.

He took off again, in a north-western direction, at a pace he knew he wouldn't be able to keep up for long.

But at least it kept him busy.


	5. More than you think

**5**

Sunset in Washington D. C., sunrise in Manhattan.

It sounded like a slogan for a night train. If a rather slow one.

Peter had reached New York sometime in the dead of night, after being forced to make an hour's stay somewhere in a field in New Jersey when he simply hadn't been able to go on. New York from above looked familiar by now, and before he could wonder whether it was the smartest idea or not, he found himself over Manhattan's Lower East side, circling until he spotted the rooftop of the house he lived in. Or had lived in. He was no longer sure which tense applied here.

He did not consider for even a second to enter his apartment, sure that Nathan's or Danko's men had made sure they would know immediately if he showed up there. But the roof was safe; even in the unlikely event there were cameras that he'd missed, he could fly away from here at a second's notice.

And this had been where it had all started. The bleak roof with the run-down alley far below felt almost like a sacred place. As he sat here, legs drawn up, chin on his knees, staring at the pale streak of light in the East, he was back in another time when he'd spent an entire night up here, thinking he was destined for something bigger. The day he'd jumped.

The day Nathan had flown up to catch him.

The thought of Nathan had set another train of thoughts in motion; one he didn't like one bit. He hadn't had any time to think about it last night, but if posters with his full name and photo were in circulation, this could only mean two things: Nathan wanted him caught so badly now that he didn't care if his own name got dragged down in the process – or Nathan was in no position anymore to make such a decision. For some reason, Peter thought it was the latter. Apparently, Nathan had been able to withhold the minor detail that he could fly from his goon squad. He had told Peter, just after he'd flown him to safety, that he had seriously compromised his position by catching Peter after Danko had shot him. And Danko was no fool.

The thought evoked mixed feelings, and even Peter couldn't say which prevailed. On one hand, Peter had told Tracy that Nathan wasn't his brother anymore, and he'd meant what he said at the time. And the idea that Nathan had ended up in the sights of the very organization he had founded, running from the same people that he had sent after his own brother, his daughter, and other people who he knew were no threat, was nothing short of fair.

And still.

Peter closed his eyes and sat motionless for a long while, wishing for nothing more than for his mind to go blank and his thoughts to stop running in circles. The truth was that he hardly felt he knew anymore what was right and what was wrong, and that feeling was less disconcerting than it should have been, which didn't help either.

The sun was up by the time Peter got to his feet again, his stomach growling after another twenty-four hours without anything to eat, and flew off in search of 59 Box Street. It was still very early – not even six AM – but he knew he didn't want to go traipsing around fire escapes searching for the right apartment when most of Brooklyn would be awake to watch. Whoever lived there had better be aware that helping fugitives on the run from the government was tied to unearthly hours.

He had no idea what to expect when he found the right block, whether this was some sort of safe house, or if he was even about to meet Rebel in person. He landed on a fire escape on the fourteenth floor and started counting windows. He was fairly sure it had been either the fourth or the fifth window.

_Thanks for your precise instructions, Rebel_.

To be fair, they had been precise. Just very fast.

Peter edged to the fourth window to look inside, but there was a completely opaque, pale orange curtain drawn across the entire window. He couldn't find any crack to peer through, and after a while, went on to the fifth, where he could see a bluish, flickering reflection indicating that the TV was on. On the floor in front of it a little girl lay on her stomach, watching cartoons. There was nobody else in the room, but Peter decided that this couldn't be the right apartment. Nobody would endanger their child helping specials on the run. Both windows were closed.

Unsure, he went back to the other window, again trying in vain to get a look inside. He was about to leave again when the curtain was drawn open with a jerk, and Peter involuntarily drew back, gripping the handrail behind him for support.

He had expected to see either a complete stranger, or someone somehow connected to this strange parallel universe in which he felt he'd been living for the last year, but he had never even considered that he might find somebody who, for Peter, was firmly connected with the other, the real, the _normal_ world.

And although he had to concede that it was logical once you thought about it, probably the last person he had expected to see was Hesam Malek.

Hesam stood on the other side of the window, staring back at his former paramedic co-worker standing outside his apartment, but Peter somehow got the impression that he was less taken aback at the fact _that_ someone was standing there, outside the fourteenth floor, but _who_.

With a puzzled expression, the Iranian finally opened the window, and said, "Peter."

Peter remained standing on the grating, not intending to come in unless he was invited. "I—I didn't know you lived here. God – this is going to sound totally crazy. I was sent here by—"

"Someone named Rebel?" Hesam picked up his cell phone from the table. Apparently, the adjacent room was his living-room. He held out the phone to Peter, and on the display, he read, MESSAGE FROM: UNKNOWN

OPEN YOUR WINDOW. THERE'S SOMEONE WHO NEEDS HELP.

REBEL.

Peter nearly rolled his eyes. "That's the one."

Hesam hesitated for another few seconds, then he moved aside. "Come on in. I'm guessing you're not keen on being seen."

Peter murmured a _thank you_ and climbed through the open window. Inside, his eyes fell on the TV, which was running, but not on cartoons. Peter felt an icy feeling creep over him as he watched a helicopter view of a damaged Union Station roof flickering across the screen.

"I had a feeling it might be you," Hesam offered. Peter didn't speak.

"So it wasn't Middle-Easterners this time that your brother was about to go against," Hesam started again. Peter suddenly realised that Hesam had to have even less of a clue than he who was good or bad in this game. How much _did_ he know? How much had the media even disclosed of all this?

"Listen," Peter finally said, his voice heavy. "I don't even know where to start. And most of all, I don't want to drag you into this. If you say you don't want anything to do with me right now, I totally understand, OK? I'll just be off, nobody will know I was here, and you won't get into any trouble. Look, you… you probably saw that was me there—" he jerked his head towards the TV screen – "and they probably said I was responsible for the death of that girl. Just so you know the stakes."

"Death of a girl?" Hesam echoed. "They said a woman was injured at the station, but not that anybody had died."

Peter's knees suddenly felt weak with relief. "_Not_ dead – thank God," he murmured, and before he knew it, he found himself leaning against the edge of Hesam's couch, his head in his hands, shaking.

"Hey," Hesam said hesitantly, "Come on, sit down. I ain't going to throw you out like this."

Peter let Hesam help him sit on the couch, and he suddenly had a cup of tea in front of him. He nodded his thanks, but didn't trust his hands to refrain from shaking, so he just remained sitting there for several more minutes before he dared to pick it up.

Hesam sat on the edge of his table, watching Peter intently. He'd switched off the TV. "If you don't know where to start – what about the gist?"

"I don't even know what the gist is." Peter took another sip of tea, which was so hot that he hardly tasted anything.

"Alright." Hesam gave a nod towards the sling Peter was wearing. "You want me to have a look at that?"

Peter was about to say that it wasn't necessary, that he had just redressed the wound, when he remembered that "just" had been twenty-four hours ago, so he made a motion that was halfway between a nod and a shrug.

Hesam drew in a breath between his teeth as he removed sling and compress and looked at the wound underneath. "That wasn't yesterday, at least. Gunshot wound?"

"No… yeah. It was… I don't know. Three days ago, I think. Might have been two. The days… have run together."

"Looks more like three. That's a bad infection you got there, but you probably didn't need me to tell you." He carefully moved Peter's shoulder to look at the back, and convince himself that there was no exit wound. "You did have enough sense to get the bullet out, though, right?" As he spoke, he lightly grasped Peter's wrist, looking at his watch to take his pulse.

"Yeah." Peter looked down at what Hesam was doing, almost mesmerised, falling into the same routine out of habit. "Nathan did it."

Hesam's eyes narrowed as he gave Peter a long, searching look. "So... you're on speaking terms again?" he then asked, conversationally, as he glanced back at his watch and continued to count.

Peter realised he didn't really have an answer to that. "No. Not really. Just... just on bullet-removing terms."

Hesam looked to be on the verge of asking more questions, but then he blinked, releasing Peter's wrist, and said, "Let me get something to clean that up. I don't have antibiotics here, but I can get you some later." He got up and vanished through the door, and Peter leant back and closed his eyes. In that instant, he was feeling infinitely grateful to the other man, for being quietly supportive without pestering him with questions, which he would have been perfectly entitled to.

The Iranian was back a few minutes later, with a first aid kit, towels and hot water, and carrying his dark blue uniform jacket, which he hung over a chair. "We haven't got that long," he said as he sat down to take care of Peter's injury. "I'm still on the day shift, so I need to be at work at seven." There was a twinkle in his eye as he cast Peter a sidelong glance. "And you know Jackson. I'd better not be late."

In spite of himself, Peter chuckled, but then was shut up quickly as Hesam set to work. Neither of them spoke while the paramedic cleaned and bandaged the wound again. Peter's face must have betrayed more of his pain and exhaustion than he'd hoped, because when he was done, Hesam asked, "You OK?"

"Yeah." Peter folded the sling, one-handed, deciding he'd do without it from now on. "Thanks."

Hesam got up and put on the jacket. "I'll lock the door when I leave, and keep the curtains drawn. I bet you can do without surprise visitors. You can sleep on the couch. You look like you haven't had a lot of sleep lately."

"I can stay here?" Peter asked. He hadn't dared, so far, to take this for granted.

"What does it look like?" Hesam said, with what could best be described as friendly exasperation. "If you're hungry, there's bread and some shawrbat'adas in the kitchen."

"What's that?" Peter asked.

"Iranian lentil soup. Just help yourself."

"Thanks," Peter said again. "Hey—" he groped for something to say, but couldn't think of anything that could have expressed just how grateful he was. "Thanks," he finally finished, lamely.

Hesam nodded. "Be back tonight." He started towards the door, but then stopped. "And maybe then you can tell me what you did to get Homeland Security charging after you in DC."

"It's not so much anything I did," Peter said quietly. "It's more because of what I am." He didn't offer any more.

"What you are," Hesam repeated.

"Like I said," Peter murmured darkly. "I know more about being different or scary than you think. And since last week, I've learned another thing or two."


	6. Restless

**6**

After Hesam had left, Peter remained sitting on the couch for several minutes, the desire for sleep warring with his empty stomach, along with a nagging restlessness which still refused to allow him to feel secure no matter where he was. He tried to convince himself that he would hardly find a safer place than here. Hesam and he had been colleagues, but no more than that, so that Homeland Security could not possibly have him on any list of people Peter was likely to visit. Peter had flown down to the window as close to the façade as possible, so he could not have been spotted from opposite houses, at least not unless someone had been watching the other wall. As for his phone, he would have to trust Rebel that his pursuers couldn't locate him through that any more.

Despite his unease, he was so tired that he caught himself nodding off even while he was still contemplating what to do, and decided that if he didn't get himself something to eat that instant, he would fall asleep on the couch and, more likely than not, starve in his sleep. Well, maybe not starve. But after Hesam's offer to help himself, it would have been stupid to just drop off here.

Peter got up with a lot of difficulty – his legs, it seemed, had just been preparing for a good long nap and didn't take to his change of plans too kindly – and went out of the living-room door, into a tiny hall that was made even smaller by several shelves lining it, and saw the kitchen door standing ajar. He found what looked like pita bread, next to the refrigerator, and a large pot half-full with something that looked more reddish than Peter had expected. Hesam's words had conjured up the memory of Nonna Francesca's famed lentil soup, but then, Hesam could hardly be expected to cook like Peter's grandmother. Peter found plates in the cupboard, and wolfed down two helpings, cold, with half a loaf of bread, even though he felt slightly guilty after the first.

He returned to the living-room and fell asleep on the couch before he had time to take off his shoes.

His dreams were dark and confused; probably induced by the combination of too much lentil soup on an empty stomach, the infection and, on top of everything, a week that held at least an honourable mention among the worst of his life.

There was a lot of Danko, a lot of Nathan, and, inexplicably, a bit of Caitlin, who was just sitting in a corner of Hesam's living-room, wordlessly painting pictures with rows upon rows of body bags.

Peter awoke with a start at the sound of the front door.

He immediately sensed that something was wrong, even before he heard the sound of many heavy, booted footsteps, and as he scrambled up in alarm just as the living-room door burst open and half a dozen black-clad, masked figures poured into the room, all with rifles pointed at him. He was in a daze, unable to move. Two of them moved forward, pinning him down, while the others kept their guns trained on him, and as he started to struggle wildly, he saw Hesam standing in the back, looking at all the commotion with an unreadable expression, saying, "I'm sorry, Peter."

Peter gagged as he felt a tube pushed up his nose, struggling even more wildly, when he heard the man pinning him down say, "It's alright, Peter."

His voice, too, sounded strangely like Hesam's.

Peter continued to try to break free, but the other man was holding both his forearms firmly. He coughed as he tried to avert his head, but could still feel the tube.

"Peter. Peter, wake _up_! It's _OK_!"

Breathing hard, Peter stared in Hesam's face. The Iranian was still in his paramedic uniform, sitting on the edge of the couch, holding both of Peter's arms as he shook him slightly. He held Peter's eyes for several seconds, searching for recognition before he slowly loosened his grip.

Instinctively, Peter's hand went up to his mouth and nose, but there was nothing there. He gave another cough, then let out a long, slow breath to calm himself.

"I'm sorry if I scared you." Hesam held a hand to Peter's forehead. "You're burning up. I've brought some stuff – some of it wasn't that easy. They won't miss the ibuprofen, but let's hope nobody'll notice the antibiotics and analgesics I liberated." He sat back slightly and gave Peter a pat on the arm. "Hey. You with me again?"

"Yeah." Peter shakily pushed a strand of hair out of his face. He felt stiff and sore and realised that he must have slept for close to twelve hours straight. It didn't really come as a surprise – it seemed that his body, after being pushed far beyond its limits for days, had finally slammed on the brakes. "Just a dream."

"Not a nice one, either."

"No." Peter felt he probably ought to be less monosyllabic, but he really couldn't muster the strength to keep up a conversation.

Hesam waited for a few more seconds, then he stood up. "Hey," he said, in an ostentatiously conversational tone. "D'you leave any of that soup?"

"Yeah." Peter decided he had to make more of an effort, and added, "I had two helpings; hope that was OK."

"No problem," Hesam answered. "You know – I'll just eat something, then we can go about patching you up some more. And you can get some more rest."

Peter nodded, gratefully.

"You want any more to eat?"

"No, it's OK. Maybe some water."

"I'll get you some."

Peter couldn't remember falling asleep again but he must have; he woke some time later, when he felt Hesam lightly squeezing his arm. At least this time, he hadn't incorporated the sensation into any nightmares. Definitely an improvement.

Hesam must have been thinking along the same lines. "Sorry to wake you, but I'd really like to get that infection of yours treated. And I figured it would be better to make sure you were awake for that."

Peter smiled weakly. "I guess."

Hesam sat down on a chair he'd pulled up from the kitchen, and gave him an injection of what Peter soon recognized as morphine. A part of him still rebelled at the idea of rendering himself so helpless. On the other hand, however, he was aware that it didn't make him that much more helpless than he was already, and the antibiotic ointment that Hesam applied to his wound hurt badly enough as it was, which went a long way in convincing him more fully.

When Hesam was done, Peter lay back for a moment, his forearm over his eyes, drowsy but still restless. Not even the morphine had been able to make that go away. "I can't stay," he finally said, wearily.

Hesam, who was clearing away packages, tubes and old compresses into a box, gave a laugh. "What do you mean, you can't stay? Where do you think you're going right now? You need a few days of rest, Peter. I don't know what you've been doing after you got shot – or what you did in _order_ to get shot – but I can't believe you even made it to New York. Nobody'll find you here."

Peter was silent for a minute, then, he finally said, "I flew."

Hesam didn't reply.

Without looking at Hesam, his arm still across his face, Peter continued, "I flew. That's how I was able to get to your window – I didn't climb the fire escape. That's how I got out of Union Station. And that's why they're after me."

He waited for a reply, which still didn't come, so after a while, he went on, in the same flat tone, "There are others. With abilities. Some of these abilities are dangerous. And some of the people who have them are dangerous. But Homeland Security – Nathan – they don't distinguish. They just rounded us all up, drugged us and put us on a transport plane. Did you watch the news a few days ago? That was us. The plane crashed. A few of us escaped. Most were recaptured. I'm pretty much the only one left running."

He heard a soft _thud_ as Hesam put down the box, and then the sound of him slowly sitting down on the chair.

"Rebel has been helping us," Peter continued, still not looking. "And he was right to send me here. But I still can't stay. I'm endangering you. If I get caught, it's not a question of ending up in prison or something like that. It's worse. And I don't know what they'd do to you for helping me if they find out, or to make you tell them my whereabouts. As soon as I can, I'll leave."

There was a long silence, then Hesam said, "You probably shouldn't have told me all this, should you?"

"Who'd believe you?" Peter asked bitterly.

"That's beside the point, as I won't tell anyone." Peter could sense Hesam leaning closer, and he finally moved his arm from his face to meet his former colleague's eyes. He had difficulty keeping them open.

"I'm involved in this already," Hesam said, looking at Peter intently. "You told me this morning that helping you might be dangerous for me, didn't you? Things haven't changed since then, Peter. You're safe here. As long as necessary. And now get some sleep. You'll feel better tomorrow."

Peter wanted to object. There were so many things he hadn't mentioned, things he probably should have. That he had broken into Danko's apartment with the clear purpose of killing him, and had intentionally shot him in the arm. That the ones who designated him as terrorist did have some points in their favour.

But he was just too tired.

He fell asleep again, and this time, he couldn't remember any dreams at all.

* * *

Author's note: I'd done some research on antibiotics Hesam might have used; my problem was that I researched them on a German site and according to German laws. In the US, it appears, antibiotics are much more over-the-counter than here (where you won't get any antibiotic without a prescription). So I left the whole thing a lot vaguer in order for the story to work. I bet there are still stronger antibiotics which work in this context that you _can't_ get at a Kwik-E-Mart, so this still makes sense. XD


	7. A promise of rain

**7**

When Peter woke, it was nearly dark, making him think he had only slept a few hours. He didn't see or hear Hesam anywhere.

He lay awake for a while, simply enjoying the combination of a clear head and a relatively painfree shoulder, until he saw the little digital clock on the DVD player telling him it was 3 PM. He had slept through the entire night and half the next day, and Hesam had obviously long left for work again.

He got up, half-expecting to feel the world turning around itself as soon as he sat up, but it didn't happen. His head remained clear. It looked unnaturally dark outside, and when Peter carefully drew the curtain aside to peer through, he saw that the sky was dark-grey and oppressive, promising rain.

A look at his shoulder told him that Hesam must have changed the dressings again, and that the wound looked a lot better, the swelling noticeably reduced. The ointment Hesam had used was still on the box on the table, and Peter applied some more before he redressed it. Even that was bearable now.

On the table there was a note saying, _There's bread and cheese in the refrigerator. See you later. Hesam_.

Peter ate, and took the rare chance to wash, but all the while, he knew he would not be waiting for Hesam to return. He knew he was walking a fine line between overstaying his welcome and appearing ungrateful, but the former held the higher risk for Hesam, and he was not going to be responsible for any harm coming to one of the very few people who had truly helped him, at high personal risk, in more than a week.

When he returned from the bathroom, his yellow polo shirt appeared to him more inadequate than ever, with some newly-acquired blood stains that spoke of his escape from Washington, and with some reluctance, he decided that Hesam would have to do him one more favour.

Peter felt like an intruder when he went into his ex-colleague's bedroom and took a plain black shirt from his wardrobe, which looked as if it would fit. His jacket looked an even greater mess, but he took it with him to dump it in a garbage container later. The least he could do was clean up after himself.

He cautiously opened the window and spent several minutes watching the houses opposite, to make sure that nobody would see him. When he took off into the cloudy sky, the only things that were still reminiscent of his stay in Hesam's apartment were a neatly folded blanket on the couch, a plate in the sink, and a box of medical supplies on the living-room table, next to a note:

_Thanks for everything._

_Peter._

_.  
_

He landed in a rundown-looking alley somewhere in Little Italy, disposed of his torn and bloody jacket, and nearly regretted it half an hour later. The temperature had dropped remarkably; despite the fact that it was June, the wind was cold. While he was contemplating what to do, his phone bleeped to life.

Of course. Rebel would have noticed that his position had changed.

Peter took the phone from the pocket of his jeans and read,

MATT AND DAPHNE ARE FREE. MOHINDER AND TRACY TOO. BETTER LAY LOW.

Peter's heart made a leap. He wasn't entirely sure he could trust Mohinder, and was certain he wasn't going to trust Tracy that easily ever again, but he was glad to find that Matt was still alive, and had escaped along with Daphne.

WHERE ARE THEY? he typed. STILL IN DC?

There was no answer.

REBEL? he typed.

He waited for several minutes, but no reply came. Even more unusual was the fact that the phone didn't switch off. Apparently, Rebel had been interrupted, and Peter hoped that nothing worse had happened.

He wondered whether he should switch it off himself, but decided against it. He didn't know how to activate it again, and if anyone tried to call Nathan on his phone, it might even provide him with valuable information. And it seemed they really couldn't track him on it, so the risk was comparatively low.

He passed a dry cleaner's, in front of which was parked a delivery van with its back door open. Peter cast a quick glance around, saw nobody standing near, and quickly snatched a dark coat from a rack inside. He walked on briskly, peeled off the plastic bag a few blocks further in a shadowed doorway, and put on the coat.

He would fly back to Washington tonight, to find Matt and Daphne. He was not in that great a hurry now; and flying in this weather would be difficult, so he might as well hope it'd clear up tonight, after the rain.

The mobile rang half an hour later, while he was walking aimlessly through mid-town Manhattan.

He hesitated for a moment before he took it from the pocket of his coat, then he said, "Yes," in a carefully neutral voice that he hoped might be mistaken for Nathan's if the caller didn't know him well.

There was a slight pause from the other end, and with very mixed emotions, Peter heard his brother's voice, "Peter."

He didn't say anything. It was all he could do to not shut off the phone.

Apparently, Nathan was not finding it any easier to open a conversation, because there was another pause before Peter heard him say, "So you finally figured out the PIN."

"Yeah," Peter replied, in a casual tone, so Nathan wouldn't know he had done nothing of the sort.

Nathan, however, didn't elaborate on it. "The reason I was trying to reach you is – I need you to help Mom."

This finally did elicit a response from Peter. He shook his head incredulously, although Nathan couldn't see that. "_You_ need _me_ to – I seem to have forgotten, Nathan, but when exactly did this go from 'be a good boy and turn yourself in' to 'I need your help?'"

Nathan's voice was flat as he refused to take the bait. "I'm out, Pete. Danko saw that I can fly. He's running the operation now, not me."

"What else is new?" Peter said sarcastically.

"Pete – please. Now that I'm gone, the free pass for Claire and Mom is up. I'm taking care of Claire; you need to help Ma."

"So whatever happened to _my_ free pass, Nathan?"

"Dammit, Pete, I'm serious!"

_So am I_, Peter thought, seething. He couldn't believe that Nathan dared to call him and make demands, but he strongly doubted he'd ever get a "sorry" from his brother, and he saw that there were more urgent matters at hand now.

"Where is she?" he asked, matter-of-factly.

"I don't know. In New York. They'll be after her."

"In New York," Peter repeated. He had never felt such an overwhelming urge to hit somebody through a phone.

Nathan gave an explosive sigh. "Look, Pete – I know this isn't gonna be easy, alright? I realise we're somewhat less than best buddies right now, OK? She needs your help. If you won't do this for me, do it for our mother."

Then the connection was gone, and Peter was once again left being cold-shouldered by a telephone. He thought he probably ought to be getting used to that by now, but for some reason, it just kept getting worse. And the worst was that Nathan's last sentence was his version of what Peter had told Nathan in the Haitian jungle – 'If you won't do this for the right reasons, at least do it for your selfish ones.' The tit-for-tat response didn't sit well with him at all.

The last bit of information he had about his mother, unless you counted their brief meeting on the rooftop after he'd been shot, was that she had been part of Nathan's operation in rounding up specials.

_She's your mother_, he told himself. _She's still your mother_.

He was still holding Nathan's mobile, and he typed in his mother's number. He couldn't say he was surprised when she didn't answer the phone.

He knew he could not just walk up to her front door. Or fly to her front door. If Nathan felt she was in danger, the house near Central Park would be watched. And she would no longer be there, or trying to save her was no good anyway. How on earth was he supposed to find her in this city?

He stared at the phone. It was a long shot, but maybe it would work.

He typed a random number and sent a message that wouldn't make much sense to anyone who would get it by accident, but it was his only chance to get help.

I NEED TO SAVE MY MOTHER. IF YOU CAN FIND HER, HELP ME.

He hit "send" and prayed it would reach its addressee.

As he shut off the phone, heaven opened its floodgates.


End file.
